A man sits alone at a table made of glass. The light around him is bright and warm. His home is comfortable. The glass table is one of many tasteful furnishings.

They left to see their aunt that morning. He saw the kids off, kissed his wife goodbye, and locked the door behind them. That left the whole day to get  everything in order: he paid off his credits cards, stocked the refrigerator, and cleaned. He cleaned so well that his entire home was immaculate, including the kitchen table made of glass. It was polished until it was nearly invisible.

He finished around ten in the evening. Then he went to the hidden safe in the bathroom, keyed in the code, and removed the pistol he kept inside. It made a soft click as he placed it on the table. Then he sat.

Eventually, he realizes that it is dark around him. The house is silent. He does not remember turning off the lights, but under the circumstances it doesn’t seem to matter. Reaching out, he gasps the holster and flicks open the button.

Another hand rests over his.

The man freezes stiff. Something is sitting across the table from him. He can see an outline in the gloom—a section of deeper darkness that might perhaps be a person.

“Not yet,” says the thing across the table, with a voice that is far from human. Each word is like the rush of winter air, and the sounds come from far away.

“I’m tired.” The man says, and his voice cracks. “I’m always so tired.”

“Your family loves you. You are comfortable and fed. You have many friends,” said the thing. “Come the daylight, you will even know happiness. What more would you ask of me?”

“Please. Please, they’ll be fine without me. Just let me die.”

“Not yet,” said the thing. “I have seen your dreams. You wish to vomit, believing you can expel your pain. You yearn for cancer, for at least then you would know why it hurts. But these are childish thoughts. Take comfort in your home, love your children, and make love to your wife while the sun is still up. You will smile then.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You mistake me.” The thing’s words emerged as a hiss. One of its fingers prodded at the man’s arm. He could feel his skin deform and twist under its touch.

Then his skin tore. It ripped. With two fingers, the thing grasped a loose strand and pulled it from his arm like the peel of an orange. When it was done, it released his skin, and stuck two fingers through his arm. They passed through without resistance, and wiggled on the other side. There was no flesh or bone to block their way.

“You are a hollow creature,” said the thing. “During the day, when the sun burns in the sky, I am content to lend you what is mine. As night falls, I must make my own way for a time. You feel my absence, but I have done you no harm. You know this to be true.”

“What, you’re going to tell me I feel it in my fucking heart?”

“You don’t have a heart,” said the thing. “You make your wife happy. You have told her you love her many times. But you always tell her during the day. At night, you know you don’t mean it.”

“I can’t…” The man’s voice cracked. Tears formed in his eyes. “I can’t.”

“You can and you will. We are not the worst monsters in this world, you and I. You feel nothing when you tell your wife you love her. You would feel nothing if you opened her throat. You have no more remorse or pity than you have love. But you have chosen to pretend you love her, and that is something at least. You make her happy. She is not like us.”

“And if I refuse, and shoot myself anyway?”

“You have lovely children.”

When the lights came back on, the man found himself curled up on the floor under the table. The house was as bright and cheerful as it had even been. His arm was whole, and showed no signs of damage. The clocked showed four-AM, and outside it was dark.

He gripped his head and tried to scream. He tried to cry, but he hadn’t tears within him.

He lay there until the sun rose and sweet unconsciousness took him.